


Back In The U.S.S.R.

by PeachGO3



Category: Star Trek, Star Trek: The Original Series
Genre: 1960s, Espionage, F/M, Fluff and Humor, tiny bits of this are stolen from the interrogation scene in The Voyage Home
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-11-20
Updated: 2019-11-20
Packaged: 2021-02-24 20:00:37
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,109
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21504256
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PeachGO3/pseuds/PeachGO3
Summary: Until the CIA arrives, it’s up to you to keep this Russian spy in check. He insists he’s from the 23rd century, but of course you don’t buy his discount Beatles bullshit.
Relationships: Pavel Chekov/Reader
Comments: 4
Kudos: 29





	Back In The U.S.S.R.

**Author's Note:**

> Sometime ago a sudden Spy!Chekov mood had hit me, which was when I quickly typed this down. Enjoy ♡

You grab the ID he was carrying and take a long look at him before reading what’s written there: “Pavel Chekov. ‘Starfleet’. ‘United Federation of Planets’.”

He folds his hands on the table and nods. “Yes. Thank you for reading it out.”

Deadpan, you fling the badge in front of him and snarl, “Okay, ruskie, cut the bullshit. The big guys are gonna get here soon and they’ll go much harder on you than I. So, you might just as well tell me.” You cross your arms and stare him down, just like you learned in your training.

But he’s just frowning. “Tell you what?” he asks.

You breathe out through your nose. “Name,” you order.

“My name?”

Right. “No, my name!”

And he has the audacity to complain: “I don’t know your name!”

“Cut it! Cut it, you petty spy!” you call and slap a determined hand onto the table top, making him flinch. “I’m not a spy,” he says, quieter now.

“Then what are you?”

“You just read it!”

You raise both eyebrows at him. “’Starfleet, United Federation of Planets’?” you repeat mockingly.

“Yes,” he answers. “I am Ensign Pavel Chekov, service number 656-5827D.”

Ah, finally something to work with. You grab your pen and jolt down the number. “’Ensign’?” you ask. “So, you’re from the _flot_?”

“Yes. No. Star _flot_ , if you will.”

And you cross it out again. Jesus Christ. “What is your mission?” you ask through gritted teeth. His brains seem to rattle for a moment as he thinks about how to phrase his answer – a soothing indication that you’re onto something here. His eyes are restless. What he settles on is: “I can’t tell you a whole lot because of the Federation’s Prime Directive. But basically, it’s to explore new worlds, find new life and befriend it so that it will join the Federation and spread peace.”

“The Federation of Planets?” you ask a second time.

“Yes,” he says and leans back, leather jacket crinkling gently. When you look at him a little longer, he smirks as though he feels really fucking clever. You know about guys like this, you know them from your hometown and your training in your own ranks: witty, sensible, douchey. Feeling all self-important. But you wonder why they’d work for the KGB. How old is this one anyway? He looks your age. Man, they don’t waste no time over there.

Also, you still don’t know what to think of his little space story. Is it meant to disturb you? It’s way too stupid to do that. And the accent’s too obvious, he’s not even trying. Then maybe he’s going for the mental-illness-route and thinks he can get away with sniffing round the rockets by having himself declared _non compos menti_.

You nod and try to roll with it because you don’t want to look uncool on your first assigned case, although you do know you’re only the transitional solution. “Alrighty, so you’re on a mission to find new planets? By controlling a spaceship?” you ask, casually leaning onto the table.

“Starship,” he corrects. “And yes, currently I act as the navigator. Not right now, of course, because I’m here with you.”

His answer intrigues you and you wonder what kind of engines the commies must be building these days. Maybe you can tickle some information about that out of him. “How advanced is the Russian space program?” you ask.

He shrugs with a stern face. “It’s not the Russian space program, it’s the Federation’s Fleet. Although I am pretty sure it was founded in Russia.”

You count to three while steadying your breath and lean back, saying something they told you to never say during interrogations: “Okay, you’re a tough one.”

“Thank you. May I go now?” he asks with an innocent expression, and you realize with horror that you looked into his brown eyes a millisecond too long. This is derailing quickly.

“No! Tell me what this is!” you scream to compensate and pick up his devices. “And this! A space weapon? A rays gun?”

“It actually is, so please be careful,” he says with a cautious gesture.

“Or what?” you ask, spiraling deeper and deeper into protective sarcasm. “Will I turn to nasty, bubbly space goo?”

“Not exactly, because it’s turned on ‘stun’,” he explains and bites his lip. “And that over there is a device for communication.”

“Oh, I see. I’ll hand it in and see what our engineers can make of it,” you say and tuck it away to look at your notes again. Breathe! “So, Ensign. Let’s start anew. Who are you and what is your mission here?” you inquire.

“My mission was to investigate your century’s nuclear facilities,” he says in that terrible accent of his.

“Don’t you mean my ‘country’s’?” you correct.

“No. Twentieth century nuclear facilities,” he says innocently.

You nod and have trouble closing your mouth. “Investigating the twentieth century for a Starfleet. So now you’re from the future?”

“From your perspective, yes. I was born in 2245. In Leningrad,” he says.

“Why the twenty-third century? Why not the twenty-fourth or fifth?”

He looks hurt. “You still think I’m making this up,” he pouts.

“Can you fucking blame me? Time travel – are you serious? Why are you here?” you call, hands raised in frustration. This interrogation is already too ridiculous to be taken seriously, but maybe, if you could just get the right information out of him –

“To investigate, but security came before I could beam up. I am here by accident. No one living right now knows me.”

“Because you’re from the twenty-third century?”

“Yes!” he says.

You lean back again and cross your arms. “Well, you’ve been right about one thing, comrade – I don’t believe you.” You finally dare to point at his terrible hair. “I can see you’re a fan of the Fab Four. Or at least you’ve been made to look like one.”

His face distorts in irritation. “What?” (It really sounds more like ‘whoat’.)

“People in your place might just call them ‘The Beatles’,” you say with narrowed eyes and a forced smile, but he pretends to be irritated even further: “Why does everybody keep saying that? I don’t know these people. Could you please tell them to stop fabricating lies about me?”

“Tell who?”

“Those Beatles guys.”

You pause to frown. “If you’re not a Beatles fan, then you wear your hair like that for… what reasons, exactly?” you ask, and it’s a genuine question. “Does your boss really think your cover works better if you look like that?”

“I wear it like that because I like it,” he says, voice laced with offense. “This style was first worn by Sergey Nikiforov, the greatest fashion icon Earth has ever known.”

“Okay.”

“Thank you for respecting that.”

“I’m not respecting it, it looks ridiculous,” you say, arms still crossed. “I’m just waiting for someone to arrive. Anyone.” They’re really taking their time.

“That makes two of us,” he says with a sheepish smile. You have to give him that, he does not seem particularly nervous, despite just having been caught on his mission. He’s so weirdly polite. Your glance drops to his gun – does he feel this safe because it works after all?

You wonder if Mister Thomas and his team are here already and imagine laughter from the other side of the glass, and it makes you shiver. Even though you avoid looking at the spy, you catch him glancing at you and decide to go for a new tactic, batting your fake eyelashes at him: “Sweetheart, who’s gonna come and pick you up? The little green men who serve with you in Starfleet?”

It makes him laugh silently, and he looks down, blushing. “If you said that to my First Officer, he would raise his eyebrow,” he says and quirks an eyebrow at you. “Like this. He’s a _big_ green man.”

“Right,” you say with a smile. “Probably following orders from a robot commander.”

“Eh, androids are a bit of a hot topic right now.”

“Really?”

“Yes, personhood and such. It’s very complicated,” he says, and you find yourself liking the way he pronounces that last word. ‘Kommplikehtet’. Anything to block out the thought of your senior officers laughing at you. Dark brown eyes are a nice refuge.

“Hm. Tell me more,” you say, trying to keep your sarcastic tone from becoming too flirty.

“I can’t,” he says with genuine regret on his face.

“Why?” you ask, hoping his sadness doesn’t make you sound too surprised.

“The Prime Directive. I told you before, don’t you remember? _Gospodi_.”

“Hey, don’t talk Russian to me,” you snap.

“Fine,” he snaps back with a thin smile and crinkles around his eyes.

You nod. “Fine.”

It’s then when his (alleged) communication device beeps. An accent-free male voice says, “Kirk to Chekov. Ensign, come in, please.”

Instead of answering the contact, the Russian stares right at you and yells “Ha!” in triumph, as though he has been waiting to proof you wrong about the device. Only mildly impressed, you take the communicator and stop yourself from giving in to the temptation of asking about green men. “Who is this? Identify yourself to the FBI,” you answer in your most professional voice, smirking at your opponent crouching in the bulb’s pale light from above.

But the contact ignores you: “Mister Chekov, we have a lock on you. Stand by to transport.”

All of a sudden, there’s panic glowing in the Russian’s eyes. “Sir,” he calls, fishing for the communicator, “there’s two to beam up. I repeat, two to beam up. Do you copy?” You hold the device as far away as possible, but the guy just stretches over the table until he’s flat onto it, trying to reach for it. A weird light surrounds him, and it’s not the lightbulb. And he looks at you with wide eyes and jumps forward to fling his arms around you.

For a second you think he’s trying to choke you, but then the light blinds your eyes, and there’s a weird sound ringing in your ears. You feel afloat; the chair is vanishing, the interrogation chamber is fading – and you scream as you realize you’re being abducted by a UFO. A Russian UFO. Is it a UFO if it’s Russian?

The light dims, and you find yourself in another room, a room that’s so much brighter than your chamber that it almost renders you blind. Purple and orange. A man in a red sweater looks at you with helpless eyes, and you’re regaining orientation. He’s only, say, fifteen feet away from you, you can take him.

“Capt’n, we beamed up a lass from the facility,” he says into his console. You blink – a Scottish accent? Who’s serving in the KGB these days?

The Russian you interrogated was right next to you, you only realize that now that he’s stepping down from the platform you’re standing on. “Sir, I can explain! She knows too much, about Starfleet and the Federation and…”

“You’ve got to be shitting me,” you blurt out, feeling your knees weaken. What a terrible time to freeze. You ‘know too much’? Are they going to neutralize you?

The Scot looks confused. “Pard’n?” he asks quietly.

To his left, there are automated doors swishing open, and two other men come in. The first one wears gold, and the second one’s sporting the same sweater in blue, and his ears are pointy. “Ensign, are you all right?” he inquires.

“The big green man,” you breathe – and regret it instantly, because now his stern eyes are right on you, drilling holes, and he raises a freaky eyebrow at you. Thomas is nowhere to be seen. You wonder if he would come looking for you.

“What kind of joke is this?” you ask, close to falling, but the ensign instantly comes up to steady you. “I saw the eyebrow,” you gasp, laying a hand onto your rumbling stomach. “You did him pretty accurately.”

“Thanks, but don’t say that too loud,” he coughs.

You stand up straight, murmuring, “Copy that.” Struck. This UFO smells lovely. You stare forward, where a Scotsman, an alien and the (surprisingly charismatic?) robot commander are staring right back at you. And for the time being, holding the hand of a ruskie seems like the most comforting course of action you can imagine.

“I could use a vodka,” you try to say. “No,” says the Russian. He gently squeezes your hand, and his breath shakes. He’s so cute. You find weird relief in that. Thank God, ‘cause you fear there won’t be any vodka to compensate for the situation instead.


End file.
